The petite, raven-haired women in shimmery rainbow-colored pleated skirts swirled off the launch carrying bundles and bags, and then disappeared up Escheresque stairs that climbed the steep hillside wherever I looked.

I scurried to follow. I was intrigued by these living symbols of folk tradition who still wore the finely embroidered blouses and silken skirts of their ancestors as they went about their daily routines. But the Purépechan Indian women seemed to evaporate like a fading rainbow into a rabbit warren of stairstep shops, rooftop terraces and crooked alleyways.

My husband, Eric, and I were visiting Janitzio, a tiny, gumdrop-shaped island on 15-mile-long Lake Pátzcuaro, tucked into volcanic mountains in Mexico’s Michoacán state. The houses, churches and other buildings on the island seemed squeezed as if by a giant grip, pressing skyward. We had approached Janitzio on a long, wooden, canopied boat filled with three dozen passengers — Purépechan Indians returning from their marketing chores in the lakeside town of Pátzcuaro and a few Mexican tourists.

A massive statue of Mexican revolutionary hero José María Morelos tops the island of Janitzio, in Lake Pátzcuaro.

As we skimmed over the shallow, silty lake toward the island, a statue of José María Morelos, a Mexican revolutionary, grew to giant proportions atop the island, raising his fist skyward.

Just off the island, fishermen in dinghies stood up and dipped immense butterfly nets into the water for the entertainment of the boat’s passengers, then passed baskets for collections.

A young brother and sister on our boat beamed as they playfully dipped their tourist-trinket reed nets into the water, mimicking the fishermen’s motions. This style of fishing has been done here for generations. The catch, pescado blanco (white fish), is the centerpiece of the local cuisine.

We disembarked in a plaza and worked our way up well-worn stone steps, passing modest stucco homes; a cemetery where the graves were adorned with marigolds and candle stubs; and a middle school recreation yard buzzing with plaid-uniformed students on recess. A small stone church tucked into the hillside was a welcome break from the heat of the day.

Inside the dim space, women kneeled before an immense altar with a painted statue of Jesus, arms outstretched. Overhead, fishing nets filled with masses of brilliant yellow marigolds hung from the ceiling. Marigolds have held ceremonial significance in the Lake Pátzcuaro region since pre-Hispanic times.

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There were no marigolds at the apex of the island, but a profusion of roses and other flowers, in a tidy formal garden surrounding the base of the Morales statue. Inside the statue, a circular staircase wraps ever tighter and narrower, like the inside of a nautilus shell, to the summit of the statue.

Just one floor up, Eric paused to examine one of a series of vivid historical murals of Morelos’ life that lined the stairs then he stared balefully upward at the steep stairs. I knew Eric was acrophobic, so I tossed down the gauntlet: “Come on! It’ll be OK!” I said, as I retraced my steps from the next level up. “No, I’ll stay right here, Eric said, emphatically. “Come on, if I can do it you can,” I urged. Farther up, I leaned over the railing to look down the spiral. “Oooh, it’s just black below … don’t look down!”

Step by step, holding hands in the narrow parts, we crept upward 150 feet (46 m) until we emerged from the stuffy, tomblike interior to an observation platform teased by a fresh breeze. Eric sported a wide grin as he surveyed the scenery.